A social metaphysicist
wants to know, how
do you speak, standing
under the palm moon?

There would be a redemption,
if you pronounce slowly, one
by one word, without chewing it.
There will be no commentator.

The vertical ascent should
stop, to stay easy, begging the
question. There was
no one path to truth. You have
to find it in brown eyes.

So much to
bite, not being hungry.
Who sells the shells? Somebody
picks up the axe to finish
the job.

Where lies the fault in utopia?